Orange Juice
by Lady Nightspike
Summary: Why you shouldn't go into convenience stores at night...you'll get more than you pay for! Reffie interaction abounds!


I don't own things. Also, this story is meant to be...humourful...not really anything else. Of course, it's all Yuffie and Reno, but there's no real romantic fulfillment...yet. Ufortunately I feel as though there may be need for more...plot...

She awoke gasping, with Need panting down her throat. "Ack!" she managed around the rustiness of three hours' sleep. It was 2:32 a.m., an unholy time by anyone's estimation. But Necessity was pelting her with its loud cries like a baby bird desperate for a worm, and as she opened the fridge to quench it, she let out a moan.

_There was no orange juice in the fridge._

Now, she had faced down many monsters throughout the eighteen or so years of her life, but this was a demon that had never reared its ugly head. She always had made sure to have orange juice when she woke up with these late night cravings. "What the fuck," she said, her voice restored.

Thankfully, she pondered the relative ease by which she could procure some orange juice. There was a saviour in the (not too-far) distance, a twenty-four hour store that she swore had opened just to please insomniacs like herself. Nothing sure but death and taxes? Not so! The convenience store, like some people's deities or ravishing lovers, would always be there for her, offering its holy draught of orange juice with open hands. As long as she could fork over the money required for it.

Like any good addict, she pulled on her clothes, not caring that green shorts and an orange top made her look distinctly pumpkin-like. After all, if anyone did see her at this time, why should she care? She scooped up her purse from the floor and left the building.

It was a relatively short walk in the midsummer heat to her location. There were more people there than should have been at such a time, but she didn't pause to consider just how many insomniacs and/or somnambulists roamed the streets. At a disconcertingly high speed, she threw herself towards the back of the store.

"Mmf," she said as she stared at the brilliant display of liquids in the case. She didn't hesitate over the many brands and sizes; she knew exactly what she wanted. Unfortunately, as she reached out to seize her fate, several things happened.

The first was the realization that she had neglected to open the fridge, and so her hand was rebuffed by cold glass. It was so late, and she in such a non-coherent state, that her reaction was just to stare mindlessly at the beautiful orange juice, which she couldn't grasp. However, the second thing that happened, which, since it occurred at the front of the store and she was in the back, proved much more dire.

Unbeknownst to her, a strikingly familiar man had pulled himself out of the bar across the street, managed to drag himself without being hit by cars or menacing lampposts to the beckoning convenience store, and opened the door as she had failed to do. He walked in, locked on his first target, a blonde woman who was trying to exit the store, and slurred, "Hi. I like you. Oh, do I know your friend?"

By 'friend' he meant the life-size cardboard cutout that regarded him with a cheesy smile, as if to say, "You are hopelessly drunk." Of course, the sheer idiocy of it rendered her silent. She hoped that by ignoring him, he would go away.

This, however, did not happen. He seemed to realize he had made a mistake, and said to Mr.Cardboard, "Your wife is nice. Sorry, buddy. Next time I'll make sure I don't try to pick up someone who is mar- miri- taken." He nodded profoundly to the cutout, having achieved some special understanding with him, and staggered off.

Meanwhile, our brave heroine finally understood why the orange juice was unattainable in its current state, and opened the fridge case. With a small squeak of triumph, she snatched the orange juice and held it to her fiercely, like a child. So caught up in her ecstasy as she surged up the aisle, she failed to notice that which, drunk, was slinking towards her.

Since collisions are an inevitable part of science and drunken trips to the convenience store, this is exactly what happened: she, cradling her orange juice, smashed into the drunken mess.

Unluckily, this particular drunken mess recognized her, in the very deep part of his brain still reserved for thinking. "YOU!" he had meant it at normal volume, but that was decidedly not how it decided to shuffle out of his mouth. "Miss…uh, miss…" failure to remember her name prompted him to rename her. "Miss Pumpkin."

"Um, from that comment, I guess you don't know me at all." She extricated herself from him and tried valiantly not to know him. It was far too late at night to run into inebriated colleagues; besides, she had her orange juice and she wanted to drink it IMMEDIATELY. Had there not been etiquette involved, she would have already chugged the thing. Plus, money hadn't been exchanged yet…

She noticed with disgust that he had chosen to follow her. "So, um," she tried. "You. Can leave me now. I was just leaving, so why don't you saunter off casually in some opposite direction?"

"But it's dangerous outside. There are cows lurking there!"

"Where the fuck are you from, that cows are dangerous?" She asked, interacting without meaning to.

Encouraged by her response, he said, "I'm from the sewers."

"Uhh, yes. Well. I see. That's enlightening." Again she attempted to skip away from him. She walked right up to the counter and placed the orange juice reverently on it, pausing to dig out some money.

However, he followed her and, noticing the object of her purchase, struggled with an angst-ridden inner conflict. He really wanted to take the pretty carton and do whatever you were supposed to do to pretty cartons with it, but he couldn't quite remember how. Besides that particular pretty carton was hers, and he couldn't just go around stealing other peoples' stuff, now could he.

It was easy for her, even in her not-there mental state, to read the thoughts swirling drunkenly in his head. "Don't you dare touch that," she hissed. He, startled at her reaction, backed off a good foot or so and fell backwards, into one of those convenient pyramids of cans that waits as patiently as a spider for some unsuspecting drunk person to stumble by.

"Oof," was his only reply. He sat up, blinking. "Wha just happened."

She lost the last shreds of patience. "You tripped into the cans, you twit! Get away from me!"

The salesperson, who had somewhat of a sardonic humour, did not aid her in her plight. In fact, this particular clerk only smiled in relief that his store would soon be short one very drunk person. The farce with cans had been amusing enough that he didn't mind picking them up, especially since he wouldn't be doing the actual cleanage.

"I don' wanna," muttered he. "Besides, you're my favorite. Maybe you can't rehash the hash, but you can…uh…" he trailed off. The phrase 'rehash the hash' definitely did not compute.

"Rehash…the hash?" she asked, starting to giggle. The night was getting better; not only did she now officially own her carton of orange juice, but she had just recalled that drunk people were amusing. She idly wondered whether she dared buy a Sharpie and follow him around. Probably not, though the idea was appealing.

The bells jangled on her way out. He followed her closely in case aliens wanted to abduct her or something. "Can I go home?"

"What?" she said. "That's fine by me…I'm not stopping you."

"Oh," he said, looking very serious for a second. Almost as if he were sober. Then, it evaporated like rubbing alcohol left in the sun. "Where is that?"

"_Your _home?" she asked, putting an anvil's worth of weight on exactly whose home it was so that it would penetrate his drunken mind. "I'm sure you should know."

His eyes rolled up in his head as he contemplated that. "I live here, you know."

"Right here? On the sidewalk?"

"Yeah!"

"But didn't you say you were from the sewers?"

This was too much logic for him to argue with or agree with. He stood there, opening and closing his mouth randomly.

She suddenly realized what time it was and what she had in her hands. "Ok. I'm going now, Have fun in the slime of your home, or wherever you crawl to at night." She briskly turned in the direction of her place, and walked the short distance.

Not able to stand it any longer, she paused to alleviate her thirst outside her destination. "Ahh," she gasped as Relief itself poured down her throat.

"Ahh," came an echoing- and all-too familiar voice from the shadows.

"You again?" she asked him.

"I live here," he said brightly, smiling.

She would have known if he'd lived so close. She made an effort to know where all her friends and enemies were, and knew that he lived on the other side of their little world, somewhere far away enough for comfort. "If it weren't for bad luck." She reminded herself brightly, "I'd have no luck!"

"Well, look," she said.

He immediately looked up at the sky. She did too, in a silent appeal for help. "It's late and I'm going to sleep. Would you like to-" some voice was telling her it was a bad idea, but it was late and she couldn't escort him home if neither of them knew where that was- "stay here?"

"Oh course I like apples," he said, righteous indignation apparent.

"Oranges are better," she said sourly. She should've known that asking a drunk person something didn't really work. Reminded of her prize, she took another swig of orange juice.

"I used to drink!" he commented.

"Used to when? An hour ago?" This was a bad idea and a half. She was pretty sure that he was going to be the death of her- as in, when the cause of her death was listed in the official records, his name would be the only words necessary.

She yawned enormously. "Well, I'm going to go in. If you follow me, you can sleep on the couch. If not, uh, have fun. And watch out for malicious Sharpies."

"Ok," he said, taking the advice to heart. "It's really _nice _of you to watch out for me."

"Yeah. Right," she laughed nervously, wondering if he was going to go all sentimental on her.

"I think we're like apples and oranges," he said sagaciously. "You have a peel and I have a…core."

"Thanks for that," she said as she stumbled up her stairs. "Three AM really isn't a time I should be seeing anymore." She stopped to help him, since he was having even more trouble than she, what with her only being exhausted and him being drunk.

"Yay! Stumble dance!" he said as he tripped up the stairs, twirling merrily in her hallway. He continued the 'stumble dance' until he bowled into her couch.

"That would be where you're staying," said she through her laughter. "I'll get you some bedding supplies." She put her orange juice in the fridge and started into the other room.

"You're the only bedding supply I need," he said in a much different tone.

"Well, you're not getting it, so that's that." Firmly. She didn't want any advances. His eyes held promises she didn't want to hear.

Finally she broke the starefest and went to get him a pillow, at least. She reemerged from her bedroom. "I am going to sleep. If you need me, find a trashcan and need that instead."

"Good day," he wished her, sincerity in his tone. Too bad the time was incorrect.

"Good night," she countered, as she thrust a blanket and a pillow into his arms and went back into her bedroom. Thus she didn't see his next actions, which was lamentable.

He stumbled off the couch and into the kitchen area attached to her living room. Opening the fridge, he muttered the words, "Pretty carton," over and over again. Because he finally knew what to do with it. He ignored the fact that she might be angry with him, and, snatching it from its place (why did it keep jumping out of his reach!) he drank it down.

"Much better," he sighed as he found that promised trashcan and threw the now empty carton into it. Then, he settled down on her couch to sleep until morning beat him on the head.

Mwahaha! Reno steals the rest of her hard-won (bought?) orange juice! I don't know why Yuffie had such a...love...for orange juice, but that's just the way it came out.


End file.
